


Parboiled

by miscreant_rose



Series: Cancelled 'verse [11]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Family Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscreant_rose/pseuds/miscreant_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the tumblr anon prompt: "M/M and mischief managed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parboiled

She’s drifting somewhere in that halfway state between sleep and waking, where thoughts become as fanciful and flexible as dreams. The fleeting thought of how out of shape she is and that she really needs to get serious about getting back to her yoga practice. ****

A perfectly balanced _natarajasana_ pose crumbles into reality with a loud shout from downstairs.

“Mum!”

She blinks, wondering just how long she’s managed to sleep in this morning.  The voice calls out again, the summons followed by an unintelligible question for her to answer.

She turns to look into groggy blue eyes, blinking back sleep and echoing her own confusion.

“Mu-um!” 

This time it’s drawn into two very long syllables.

Matthew sighs beside her before calling out an answer, “George!”

She winces at the shout so close to her ear, and he nuzzles a kiss into the nape of her neck, a murmured “ _Sorry_ ,” echoing more through his chest pressed into her back than her actual hearing.

She stretches slightly, yawning as she quietly asks, “I’m sorry, you wanted to stay home this holiday week because?”

He chuckles against her, lips a bit more than teasing along her neck and into the curve of her shoulder this time.  “Because at least here there are videos and games to entertain while I manage some mischief.”

She can’t help grinning, toes still feeling slightly curled about just how well he had managed that mischief earlier.  

Before fingers and lips can wander too far once more, there is a loud thump on the bedroom door followed by a clearly enunciated, “Mum, what does ‘parboiled’ mean?”

Matthew’s forehead hits her shoulder as he groans and she has to swallow a chuckle laced with a sigh of her own before she manages to clear her throat.  

“Why exactly do you need to know what parboiled means?”  She tosses a glance behind her to Matthew, knowing they have more than a little reason to be suspicious.

There is a slight pause, and she can she almost see him shuffling his feet and schooling his face into his most angelic expression.  “Because I’m curious and like to learn new things.”

She rolls her eyes and nudges her shoulder back into Matthew as she shifts to her back so she can poke him in the chest.  

“This is all you, Isobel warned me what you were like,” she mutters, hoping her words to Matthew would tamp down the temper she didn’t want to snap back at George.

He bats her hand away, giving her an over-injured expression, before stepping in with an authoritative tone.  “George, what are the rules about being in the kitchen unsupervised?”

The slight hesitation in response from the other side of the door is enough for them to exchange raised brows at each other.  “But, I didn’t —”

“George.”  The warning in Matthew’s tone is more than clear.

A flurry of footsteps comes from down the hall, and sounds of scuffle outside the door with a muted thump against the paneling is followed by George’s voice.  “Ow! Lucy, quit it!  Stop, I didn’t — _shhh!_ ”

There is another thump and more whispered exchange before footsteps flutter away again back down the hall.  She can just picture a now overly-flustered George on the other side of the door and grins back at Matthew.  

He sighs and rolls his eyes at her.  “George, you have five minutes to clean up whatever you have gotten to in the kitchen.”

“But, Papa, I didn’t —”

“I’m setting the timer now.”  He makes a face at her as George lets out an exaggerated sigh of frustration and stomps back down the stairs.

Shaking her head, she wonders when it became legal for eight year olds to have so much teenage attitude.

“Did I mention how much I am enjoying this holiday?” she asks dryly.

“Did I mention what I was going to do to you in the next four and a half minutes?”  His fingers and other areas of his anatomy punctuate his answering growl, making her laugh and wiggle away from him, not letting him off that easy.  A hand finds its way to her most ticklish spot, just under her ribs, and she can’t help the squeal that escapes against his shoulder, as his lips search for another spot behind her ear, one that elicits a more erotic response from her body, but just as immediate and intense.

Just as she’s ready to surrender once again to his ministrations and the rapidly growing inferno between her thighs, her brain slowly registers the quick succession of knocks on the door before it flies open.  An elbow to Matthew’s chest, the instinctive grab for the sheet over naked breasts, and she can’t help but laugh at the dashing swirl of ruffled white nightdress, dark hair in a mad birds-nest of tangles, and sparkly purple faerie wings that is now scrambling up onto his side of the bed with a whisper-shouted, “Papa, Papa!”

Lucy launches herself into her father’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear that elicits a surprised grunt and then she is suddenly launching herself over him and landing on Mary.  She lets out a small _oof_ at the sudden weight on her chest as small arms reach up to wrap around her neck and three resounding kisses are puckered against her cheek, the scent of strawberries and mint toothpaste hitting her.

“Love you, Mummy.” 

It’s whispered fiercely against her ear as arms squeeze tighter for just a heartbeat before glitter and wings and ruffles are tumbling off the side of the bed and vanishing behind a slammed door, and Mary’s cheeks are suddenly aching from smiling.

Matthew is chuckling now, pressing back against her side, warm breath finding the same ear that is still ringing from the most wonderful wake up greeting.

“And _that_ is all you.”

She grins up at him, heart still intensely aching from love. “I’ll take that.”

He drops a kiss on the end of her nose.  “You have fifteen minutes,” he murmurs, a glint in his eyes, “while I go manage the mischief our offspring are creating.”  There is a rakish lilt to his brow, and a wandering hand teases the side of her hip before pinching playfully at the curve of her bottom.  “Have the shower warmed up and I’ll meet you there.”  

She laughs as he slips from under the duvet, thinking just how much she is in fact loving this holiday. 


End file.
